


Home

by Sworn11



Series: The Holmes Boys [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson-centric, M/M, Manipulative Mycroft, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sworn11/pseuds/Sworn11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is far from being that scared little boy in the park. He is doctor, a soldier and a war hero but from that moment when tragedy struck his family so many years ago he was also...his</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

I can barely remember that afternoon when my uncle was shot protecting me and my sister. The one shining detail was of that strange boy from grade school holding me as I wept. His voice surprisingly soothing, long slender hands pressing me into an embrace. The police had come and rushed me away shortly after along with my sister Harry. I can remember not wanting to let him go. I’d struggled against the officer holding the strange boys hand in desperation, wanting him to keep reassuring me the world would one day be right again. He looked sad almost when they succeeded in prying me from him. Cool bluish eyes peering back at me with a look of disappointment.

We moved away from central London after that day. Harry had been quite upset by the move having just started dating Eloise Kent. We were both shocked and upset by our uncles death. Even though we knew it was best it still hurt that we had to move away from home. London had and would always be home. Our family moved into a small town just outside of the city. I felt very out of place growing up. Harry was able to fit in just fine. By the time I reached high school I felt slightly more like I belonged. I still thought about that day often. With sadness and an almost longing. I can remember meeting the dark haired boy once before. We’d met during grade school. He’d taken one look at me and told me more about myself then I could believe. I’d been almost angry at him until he’d explained how he’d come to the deductions. After that I’d been impressed and had told him so. He’d seemed bemused at my praise telling me no one had ever called him brilliant before. I wondered often where he was now. Even after I graduated my mind would sometimes drift to that boy from the park. 

I was pleased to be able to move back to London for university and after only three years at uni I was accepted into medical school. I was thrilled and somewhat awestruck to be accepted at such a young age. I worked hard to achieve my goal of becoming a doctor despite my young age. My goal was achieved in less time then I could ever have hoped. After med school I was accepted directly into a well placed internship. My teachers gave me splendid reviews and I never had to worry about finding a placement. I had always been a hard worker and medicine was definitely my calling. It was during my years as an intern that I discovered my affinity for being on call at Emergency. My skills at quick assessment of ailments grew as did my skills with emergency surgeries. Our hospital was understaffed and many of us took additional courses for other medical certifications over the year to try and balance out the departments. Even with my extra training there was no place I’d rather be then in the Emergency. The rush of adrenaline during such high stress moments was addicting. Using my skills for quick diagnoses appeased my need for mental stimulation. My parents were very proud when I got my full license. No one, however, was as pleased as I was that now I went by the title Doctor John Watson. 

Over the years the rush of the Emergency never faded and I spent most of my time as a doctor on call. I worked more hours then most doctors would with our staffing problems but that never bothered me. I was even given the chance to work at a larger private hospital with proper shifts. I turned it down. No one could convince me to leave a place where I felt so needed. In retrospect I suppose I should have considered the job. It would have helped me maintain a proper relationship at the time. The many failed relationships I had was beginning to become distressing. I wasn’t sure back then if i’d ever be able to give up the main focus of my practice to pursue a proper committed relationship. To get married, have children as I knew my parents hoped I would. By that time even Harry was thinking about marriage with her first long term girlfriend Clara. 

I needed to get away from society and their demands of a normal life. I wasn’t ready for commitment. It was no wonder when the military came calling that I accepted without much of a thought. I loved the hospital I worked in but i’d been there for many years already. I was ready for a change, for something more perilous and demanding. The war had definitely changed me and not in a way I could have anticipated. The medical unit was everything I could have wanted. The rush of battle, the feeling of power when I was able to save a life. I was needed there. Useful. It truly felt like I belonged there on that battlefield. It made me feel almost guilty to thrive on something as terrible as this war. I had killed and watched brave people die, and yet, the injured men and women kept on fueling my drive to become a better man, a better doctor. I was scared sometimes, I had seen things most people couldn't live with seeing. The surges of adrenaline kept me going, I lived for them. Memories of friends back home, happy thoughts from the letter Harry had sent saying she and Clara were engaged. These kinds of memories and thoughts helped me do my job. Among those memories The bemusedly pleased look of that brilliant young boy.

They’d sent me home after I had recovered from the bullet. My pension did not, could not cover the cost of a place in London where I longed to be so I began living alone on the outskirts of the city I longed to live in. No employment, an inexplicable limp and healing bullet wound to the shoulder. The worst part was that the rush that had kept me going was gone. My friends thought of me as an injured veteran who should be happy to return home to his family. I knew otherwise. I would give anything to be back with my team in Afghanistan. Anything to be useful and needed again. I should feel ashamed to wish it, to long for the war. I had once hoped to see my family and friends again, to return to London and my old hospital job once more. But on my own terms. Not like this, discharged because I was no longer in fit condition to serve my country. I did not want the looks of pity from those who now believed me invalid. I was still Doctor John Watson. 

I received what I thought to be a prank call a few months after I returned to London. I had realized shortly that it was not a prank as the the posh sounding man telling me to go to the park that day had seemed to know everything about me. I should have been worried I was being stalked or lured into a horrible trap that would lead me to my death or something like in those trashy detective novels my mum used to read. I felt too intrigued by him and his knowledge of me so I followed his directions. I was at that time so very desperate to feel something, anything. The possibility of danger only made my decision easier. I’d gone to the park as instructed and was greeted by an old friend, Mike, along the way. Going for that walk and meeting Mike in the park had been the start of my salvation. We got coffees and I waited for a sign that my mystery caller was going to make an appearance. After almost an hours wait chatting with Mike I decided that maybe It had all been a prank after all. 

When Mike suggested I join him to see a man in the morgue all thoughts of the mysterious caller left me. He brought me to see a friend of his who was looking for a flat mate for an apartment in central London. I had needed a change of scene no matter what eccentricities this man held. The limp I had acquired that my psychiatrist believed was psychosomatic may still have been firmly in place. The bog she had been pushing me to write due to her belief I had trust issues may still have been blank. But after meeting him the life I lived, one once devoid of color, was suddenly bright again. I might then have discovered something to write about.

My place in the world almost felt reaffirmed the moment I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes. I knew straight away standing in that laboratory that he was the boy from my youth. Those curls and pale skin unmistakable. His bright eyes full of insight as if they could see right through me while he made his deductions. I couldn’t tell if he had recognized me. 

We met at 221B baker street that evening and I met Mrs Hudson. I couldn’t help the feeling of embarrassment when she asked me if we’d be needing the extra room. How would she have known I was attracted to him. Luckily there was no time to dwell on my attraction as we were almost immediately whisked into the newest murder investigation. It had felt odd to be so enamored by a man after such a short encounter. I wasn’t entirely sure where my sexuality stood after the war. There had been a couple of occasions when the need for intimacy had been so pressing it hadn’t mattered where I sought it. I’d never felt this level of attraction for any man or woman before. I should have probably been scared off by his obvious glee at fresh crimes and serial killers. I couldn't bring myself to care. He’d seen the real me, someone useful. He knew me as a capable man, a capable doctor. It made me happy to see that bemused look cross his face again. Just as I had preserved it in my memory. I wished then that he remembered me. 

When the mystery man who had somehow arranged his meeting with Mike and by consequence Sherlock called me from the telephone booth I was pleased to be practically abducted and be able to thank the man who had set all these events in motion. I found out after the fact that the caller, Sherlocks supposed archenemy was actually Mycroft Holmes. Sherlocks elder brother. He had been quite surprised at my thanks and seemed most put off that I’d refused the money. I had only known Sherlock maybe an hour or two by then but I would not betray my newfound loyalty to the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. He was very similar to Sherlock with his true deductions about me. Welcoming me back to London and seeing quite easily what I tried to hide from the world. My yearning for the battle. Sherlock had seen it too when I’d eagerly followed him at the warning of danger. I had thanked him but that did not stop me from feeling slightly disconcerted by this man. 

Even when he’d brushed off my casual advances at dinner making me feel like a right twat with his talk of being married to his work I could’t stop my growing desire. That evening Sherlock had cured me of my limp and after barely even knowing the man for twelve hours I shot a man to keep him safe. 

It took Sherlock a surprisingly long time to remember our first meeting. It was during a case and I’d become upset. He’d looked lost, not knowing what to do. He seemed torn between wanting to run away and a simultaneous desire to comfort me but not knowing how. I saw the recognition in his eyes then. The look of surprise made me laugh. I was happy. It was almost a year later that we talked about that time in the park during the summer so long ago. 

I gave up on dating after eight months. It wasn’t fair to me nor the women I dated. They always left me because of him. I was too invested in my flatmate and not in them. All he had to do was text and I would run to his side. By that time I had given up the fight. Somehow I found myself in love with the most infuriating man in the universe and the most amazing one. I was surprised that Sherlock never seemed to notice, he seemed so aware of everything. It was possible, I had assumed, that he knew and just didn’t bring it up to spare my feelings. That did not seem like the Sherlock I knew. He must not have known, something I had somehow managed to keep hidden from the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. 

It took Sherlock a surprisingly long time to remember our first meeting. It took him longer then it did for us to start a romantic relationship. Something I had hoped for but never imagined I would have with such a brilliant man. The first time he kissed me, out of pure elation for my help with a case I might add, I knew I could never leave him. Even when he kept body parts in the fridge. Even if he played his violin at ungodly hours of the night. Even though he may never have loved me back. I would always stay by his side. Wherever this insufferable genius went was home. 

He gave me a real kiss months after that incidental one. After the first one he’d had to reconsider his feelings and stance on being married to his work. That first true kiss lead out our first time together. Even now remembering him and the passion he showed me on that night takes my breath away. Laying in his arms that night made me feel complete. He remembered our first meeting several months into our relationship. I’m not sure why I hadn’t told him before then. He was teaching me to play the violin when he told me about that month in the summer he spent learning under the tutelage of his brother. The look on his face when he remembered made me laugh. The look of shock that he could have forgotten. He hadn’t meant to delete the entire summer, although I can understand, loosing Mycroft had hurt him in a way I’m not sure he’d been able to accept.

It’s been almost two years since we met. Our one year anniversary just around the corner. The best part about being with Sherlock Holmes used to be that I knew that he was my reason. The best part now is knowing that I’m his.


End file.
